The Goldfish
by TapTapAlways
Summary: Mary and John are expecting their second child, Lestrade and Sherlock are still solving crimes, and Mycroft realises that he was lonely, after all.
1. Prologue

It was weird. With not one but two Holmes at the same dinner table my tolerance for strangeness was way turned up for the occasion, but this was beyond any normal expectations. I might be a wounded ex-army doctor with a well-documented attraction to psychopaths, a best friend most easily categorized under "lunatic" and a wife, the mother of my soon to be two children who's name I don't even know – not to mention have never even asked for – but this was just plain weird.

We had just finished a case that afternoon, a complicated affair which had ultimately involved all of us, even Molly and Mycroft, the latter who had most successfully located a few very elusive files for us, and we had agreed to all meet up for dinner, even Mrs Hudson, who in the usual order kept everything and everyone together.

There was nothing strange with the young woman by looks; on the shortish side rather than tall, wearing dark jeans of a kind that's undoubtedly beyond expensive, and in a three quarter sleeved olive green shirt which brought out the green in her hazel eyes, topped with a very long pony tail of golden blond hair.

The strangeness started with this young woman, younger than any of us, even Molly, being on the arm of Mycroft, not to even mention her leaning affectionately against his shoulder as if she actually liked the man, even trusted him. And then she herself went just as weird as her position by introducing herself with the words "yes, hi! I am the goldfish. My name is Henrietta Kemnel" as she shook our hands.

And when the woman she introduced as her mother, Elizabeth, a dignified brunette with a humoristic shine in her eyes, leaned over to kiss Sherlock on the cheek, that, I could see it easily, was when Lestrade's mind finally broke. I couldn't blame him. We might be well adjusted to the Holmes' brothers doing the least expected at any given moment, but there are limits to how strange even they can be. And this was weird; even for them.

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	2. It's A (Bloody Useless) Drugs Bust

I didn't know why they insisted to keep using drug's busts on Sherlock as a pretext for retrieving pilfered evidence, as the man was clearly clean since many years - I had certainly never found anything even while I lived at the place - but this time Sergeant Donavan seemed genuinely scandalised. "You pervert!" she shrieked at Sherlock, pointing towards a black lace bra, half burnt, looking exclusive, amongst his table of experiments.

Lestrade's face immediately darkened and he barked out "did that belong to the victim?!" That, of course, was the moment when the door to my old bedroom upstairs opened and, in general silence, Henrietta Kemnel came down the stairs, looking completely unperturbed as she skipped up to Sherlock, wearing jeans and a white bra, nothing more. She kissed him casually on his cheek, greeting him cheerfully with "morning, brother dearest".

It was still silent as she looked over at his half finished experiment, asking, still just as naturally unmoved "is that my bra you're burning?" Sherlock's reply was simple, and would have been simply provocative to a lot of people. "Yes".

"Good man. Your brother buys me far too much expensive underwear. It is creepy" she merely noted, heading over towards the refrigerator "you better not have any stray bodyparts in the vegetables box this time. I need to keep my milk somewhere. Oh, Hi John! Greg!" She noted suddenly, smiling at us "how are you both doing? How are your girls, John?" I blinked for a second. This woman was really, really suited for the Holmes brothers.

I replied after a moment "they're good. Very good. How's... Mycroft?" I looked in Sherlock's direction - he was back to his experiment, ignoring us. "Is it going... well?" "Yes!" she was smiling warmly, getting the milk out "we actually moved in together. That's why I'm crashing with Sherlock for a couple of nights - My can be overbearing and I cannot have that, now can I?" It was clearly a rethorical question.

Scratch that. She was very, very, very suitable for the Holmes' brothers. Count me in.

"So" Henrietta seemed to be completely comfortable with being in her bra in front of half a dozen (or more) police officers as she took out a clean bowl - from a very specific cupboard, I noticed with approval - and got herself cereal "so what are you guys doing here? It doesn't..." she gave some officer going through a lamp a searching gaze "seem like a social call".

"There, eh..." Lestrade was visibly struggling with where to look "Sherlock had some evidence... drugs bust" he mumbled. She rolled her eyes "well, obviously. I may be a goldfish but I am not a complete and utter idiot. It is elementary to deduce THAT! I meant what case are you all working on?" Her words were strangely similar to something that Sherlock might say, but her tone was far kinder. She was still smiling.

Seemingly without missing a beat, she sat down on the couch, tilting her head as she looked at Sherlock "did you eat, little brother? You are doing that scarecrow thing again". "Mmm" was the surprising acknowledgement from Sherlock of her existance "some toast with the tea". She didn't ask what tea. Maybe she already knew.

She let Sherlock go back to setting things on fire and watching it in his microscope, and I decided to reply finally, after some shocked delay, as Greg clearly had no idea what to say "yes, well, there was a woman who... well, there has been a murder. We aren't quite sure if she was an accomplice or a victim. Or both".

"Oh, I see. Well, if there is anything I can do, do let me know" she smiled "I will be here two more days, before my hundred hours are out". At our somewhat puzzled expressions, she smiled wider "I put Mycroft on time-out, if you will. He hates having his control taken away, so it is quite a suitable consequense of his meddling".

Sherlock muttered something rude about Mycroft, but Henrietta ignored him with what I at least could easily identify as accustomed ease, though I was not sure that Lestrade did. Though probably. After all, he ought to know. She then proceeded to pick up a book and completely ignore all of them as easily as Sherlock himself did. I found myself having to suppress a laugh. Mycroft clearly had his hands full if he wanted to control this woman. Though I actually hoped, for the British government's sake, that he did not make it a habit to kidnap _her_. I was sure it wouldn't go over well.

The police eventually left, not having found the evidence which as far as all of them were concerned Sherlock had hidden away somewhere. I, for one, was sure it was up in my old bedroom, as Lestrade's team had not managed to motivate searching through Henrietta's belongings, and thus had barely made more than a visual inspection of the place.

Sure enough, that was where Sherlock headed as soon as they had driven off, still ignoring that there were people in his flat. But when he, too, had finally left, Henrietta looked up from her book on bee-keeping and fixed me with her dark eyes. "They are very... particular, aren't they? The Holmes' Brothers."

I gave a slight laugh, nodding, half-exasperated. "That'd be putting too light a point on it, yeah!" She smiled "if I had ever wanted kids, I would have reevaluated after meeting Mycroft... never mind after meeting Sherlock! Could you imagine, little Sherlocks running about?"

I nodded for a second, then said "yes. No, oh god, no". I blinked, then looked at Henrietta, who was seemingly holding back an even wider smile than the one she was currently displaying, and then we both started laughing together.

 _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners. I hereby claim full copyright on Henrietta. And her mother. And whatever else is mine. All the other still copyrighted stuff belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and their gang, and I claim nothing else._

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	3. Relationships 101

_Do please review - it feeds my muse, and we all know hungry muses are grumpy bastards. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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It had barely been two minutes after I started to walk away from Baker Street that the black car pulled up at the curb. Knowing from experience that resisting created far more problems than it solved, I simply got into the car, which this time contained Mycroft himself, who looked rather upset and worried. He asked immediately, his Iceman mask somehow less efficient than was the norm "how is she?"

I blinked, briefly surprised, then the coin dropped "oh. She is is well. She actually seems to cope better than most with being in so close proximity to your brother. Maybe the two of you have more in common than you think". The Holmes' reaction to this was unexpected; in fact he looked alarmed, though it was quickly blanked over "you mean she is attracted to Sherlock?"

I found myself blinking, baffled "what?! No!" gathering myself a little, I decided to merely present the facts as I saw them "no, as far as I can see, not at all. If anything, she is very serious about your relationship. She treats Sherlock as if he is her little brother too". It was very, very hard to tell, but I thought I could catch some relief at that.

"Will she come back home, then?" It was still hard to tell, but I thought that I could sense some vulnerability in him now. "Yes." I took pity on him. "Yes, I think so. When you have learnt your lesson". "But she won't see me. She won't even answer her phone!" Mycroft didn't complain so much as genuinely express frustration. He did not understand her rules.

I decided to help him a little, that is, without destroying Henrietta's plan. "Well, what did you do? Start there, don't do it again. It obviously leads to this". There, that was a suitable nudge, wasn't it? "Women like to be apologized to when their boyfriends mess up" I added after a second. Now that was pretty basic, but how much did a Holmes date? In my personal experience, basically not at all. "Send her some flowers, some chocolate, or just a text. Something not invasive. I am pretty sure crowding her wouldn't help your case".

Mycroft thanked me rather sincerely before dropping me off outside my and Mary's front door, the black car slowly dissappearing as I went up to the front door, for the moment leaving the weird world of of the Holmes' behind, and entering instead my home.

* * *

Mycroft sat down and made himself a mental list, once back at his home at the end of the day, trying to discern what his girlfriend liked and did not like. She liked a lot of things, he realised. She liked him, to his joy; she even liked his annoying, though highly (much as he'd never admit to the fact) lovable little brother, and a lot of other things he had deduced both during their earlier relationship and during the total of eight days that they had lived under the same roof.

She liked pancakes, computers, music, roses, thick carpets, pasta, lemonade, backpacks, really fluffy duvets, jeans, morning gowns, the colours green, orange and midnight blue, as well as every nuance of purple he had never heard off. She enjoyed dancing and painting, fencing and learning the flute. She loved chocolate, brownies and listening to him playing the piano. Someday, he hoped, she would love _him_.

He was aware that it was a spectacularly lacking list, but he truly looked forward to getting to expand his knowledge on the subject, if John was to be trusted that he would get that chance. And John had clearly known far more than he had been willing to admit, but had yet been sincere enough, so he decided that he did indeed trust John's judgement in this.

There were far less things that she did not like or enjoy, as far as Mycroft could tell. She did not like early mornings, fish or being rushed. Nor did she like it when he looked too deeply at her things, followed her by CCTV or commented critically on her friends. She did not like him purchasing underwear for her. And she hated it deeply when he did anything she percieved as smothering or restricting her.

Mycroft Holmes, the smartest man in Britain, made a very firm mental note never to do those things ever again, and further to instruct his housekeeper that any fish other than salmon was not to be served in the house unless Henrietta was away. And then he decided to _almost_ take John Watson's advice and send her a big box of brownies, along with a note with an apology. She would never send off brownies without opening the box... or would she? He hated not knowing, but he loved that she was a puzzle that would never truly be possible for him, or indeed anybody, to solve.

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	4. Chocolate Solves Everything

It was two days later when I next came to Baker Street, this time following Sherlock there after a successfully wrapped up case. It was as messy as ever, Henrietta clearly not minding Sherlock's mess any more than I had, possibly even less, but there was one big difference in that on the coffee table stood a vase with one of the largest bunches of flowers I had ever seen. It was roses, every colour I could think off, many of which I had never seen roses have before.

Henrietta herself lay on the couch, much as Sherlock usually did, eating a brownie and reading a paperback novel. She looked up as we entered, smiling at me. "Hi John! It is nice to see you again!" "Hello" I removed my jacket and went to sit in my old armchair. "I met Mycroft, just as I left here last time. I hope I gave nothing away, though you never know with those two" I nodded towards Sherlock, who just flipped down on the couch, in the opposite direction from Henrietta. They both looked like this was a common occurence.

Henrietta smiled "I am sure that you didn't, and that if you did, it was no fault of yours. He sent me roses though, I wondered who gave him that idea". She chuckled in amusement "and brownies. They miss nothing, those Holmes, do they?" I had barely time to agree that no, indeed they didn't, before Sherlock cut in impatiently "it is elementary, my dear Watson. She eats them all the time".

"Well, now I do, after he sent me the largest box of homebaked brownies I have ever heard off" she answered calmly, adressing me like Sherlock had not cut into our conversation, even though it was to him she responded, continuing to smile at me "you don't suppose he's trying to fatten me up?"

"He probably is, to make you match him bett..." Sherlock got no further, before she cut him off "Sherlock! That is not acceptable! Do not speak of your brother like that, or I will put you on time-out, too!" Amazingly, that shut him up. I hoped my jaw didn't drop as far as I thought it did, but if it did, she did not comment on it.

"Well" I finally recovered "you do not need to be fattened up, but excuse me if I advice you, as a doctor, not to go in the opposite direction. If you got any skinnier, I am fairly sure..." I trailed off, wishing I had not commented, but she merely smiled and shrugged it off, my bluntness clearly being nothing after living with not one, but two Holmes (luckily not at the same time) "oh, I know, I can see my uppermost ribs if I do that. Don't worry. I am sure Sherlock has already deduced I wasn't exactly dieting" she looked at the brownie she had put down on a plate on the coffee table. I chuckled with her, ageeing "I am certain he has".

"Living with Sherlock is actually something of a relief after his brother" she suddenly confessed "you might think that Sherlock is observant, and he certainly is, but his brother sees everything, and I mean _everything_. It is a little bit alarming. And exhausting. Then again, the two of them might actually be the first two men that has ever understood me" she looked thoughtful "actually, the first two people ever, my mother excluded. Which is nice. Very nice". Then she finally added, making me laugh once more "at least Mycroft never leaves intestines in the bathtub".

 _So, apparently I posted chapter five twice as both chapter four and five. I am sorry. Here, have the actual chapter four! I do not own Sherlock._

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	5. Talk To Me

It was after yet some chatting, and a frankly hilarious pondering from Henrietta about the fact that if Mycroft _did_ leave intestines in the bathtub she would likely never know, as his house was so large, that I asked her how things was with him. "Oh, he haven't contacted me, not after leaving a very nice note with the brownies" she admitted "the hundred hours are up in five hours though, so then I will text him and tell him that he may send a car to pick me up".

I nodded thoughtfully, before she asked me curiously "if it isn't too personal, do you ever have trouble with... Mary, is it? What do normal couples argue about?" "We do not argue much, but when we do it is mundane stuff, mostly" I admitted. "Nobody following the other party with CCTV cameras... But, wouldn't you know? You must have dated before meeting the Holmeses, I mean?"

She shook her head "oh, no, I didn't much, certainly never enough to move in with somebody..." she shrugged, seemingly not all that bothered "I found most guys that were interested in me somewhat... foolish, and I didn't really meet anyone _I_ found intriguing. Then I met Mycroft, and both those things were not a problem any longer".

"He is much older than you" I pointed out, though I tried to do so in the least rude way possible. Usually, I would have kept it to myself, but this was a woman who beat my track record of living with members of the Holmes family. What could I possibly do to ruffle her? Not this, obviously, as she merely shrugged once more. "He is. But just imagine how bad dementia he needs to get before he can be beat by a normal person. I think we're good". Once more, she made me laugh, and I nodded in agreement.

When I had regained my breath, I pointed out "they can be... rather exhausting, though". She nodded again, accompanied by yet another shrug "yes, I suppose so. I find myself having to struggle to keep up with Mycroft on the best of days, but I honestly find that thrilling". She gave me a rather cheeky look before adding "I guess that's my kind of adrenaline rush..." I found myself chuckling "seems more healthy" I granted.

We spent the next two hours writing on our laptops together, while Sherlock sojourned in his mind palace. Mary and our daughter were out of town for a time, visiting with an old friend of Mary's, so I was in no hurry to return home. If Henrietta did indeed leave, thus evacuating the spare bedroom, I would probably stay over.

She put down her computer rather suddenly, and got up. "Sherlock... oh, nevermind". She looked at me instead "John, do you fancy some dinner? I was thinking Chinese... it might be my last chance to have takeaway for a while... Mycroft has a cook". I chuckled "who only cooks far too fancy and complicated food?" "No, actually" she granted "though that was probably the case before... Mycroft is generally excellent att spotting things I enjoy and not and adjusting as much as anyone could wish for accordingly".

"Really?" I found myself raising an eyebrow "He does not quite... seem very flexible". I realised immediately that I had set myself up for a very cringeworthy joke, but she just shrugged "I guess not, to a degree, but things like that seems to matter very little to him. Any fair reason seems to sway him in simple, material things".

"Well, Chinese sounds fine to me" I agreed, having long ago given up on analysing how a Holmes thought. Henrietta prompted me to talk about Mary and our daughter -and the baby we were expecting- as we ate, and told me about her own family in turn. Her mother lived here in London, but they were originally Scandinavian, Henrietta's brother still living in Norway, as it turned out.

We were eating brownies and, well, to be frank, giggling, the sky having started to go dark and Sherlock having escaped back into the spare bedroom, as Henrietta's cell phone started beeping. She looked down on it and grimaced slightly "time's up... Time to bite the bullet, I guess. What do you say to the man you've just ignored for four days?" She looked up at me, starting to giggle again "I didn't think that part through".

I could not help but laugh at this, but then I shook my head and said, I hoped at least that it sounded reassuring "I seriously do not think you need to worry. From what I saw, anything that includes 'you can pick me up now' in any version will be just fine".

"Well..." she looked at her phone, typing out something and then holding it up for me to see, saying "this will do then". I read the words "John was right you know. You can pick me up now. I hope you learned your lesson" and could not help but chuckle, covering my eyes with my hand. "You're going to marry him, aren't you? You're such a... Holmes! Already!"

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	6. Dinner, Drinks And Deductions (Part 1)

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Barely a minute had passed when Henrietta's phone went off. She looked at it apprehensively, so I offered "I can talk to him if you like". She gratefully handed it over. "Thank you, John". I took the phone, giving her a reassuring smile, and answered it with the words "Henrietta's phone - John speaking".

"John?" Mycroft's unmistakable voice was worried "is Henrietta alright?" "She's fine. She's right here. I think she dreads the argument she thinks you are inevitable to have now". There was a pause, then "I do not want to argue. I just want her to come home". He sounded almost human. "I think she'd be more than amiable to that idea". As she nodded beside me, I added "yes, she says".

The next time I met Henrietta was at Mycrofts enormous townhouse for "dinner, drinks and deductions", or as Lestrade dubbed it "beer and cold cases". Well, beer for him and me, as it were, at least. Violet and Siger Holmes were here, too, Molly Hooper with a date, as well. Then it was Mary and me, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Elizabeth Kemnel, though I got the impression that Kemnel was her retaken maiden name.

As I had already noticed the first time I met her, Elizabeth Kemnel was, however formidable a woman, and she was, completely and utterly normal. Which means little enough compared to the rest of us, but same as the Holmes parents, she seemed just ordinary, in a supremely nice way. I knew enough of Henrietta already to know that this was not the case with her daughter. Which was probably an extreme advantage when you were in love with the man who not only singelhandedly ran the country, but was a Holmes.

Strangely, I found myself thinking of Sherlock as I watched Lestrade and Henrietta interact tonight. There was something distinctly flickery about her energy, like with him. It was a bit like watching a grownup Sherlock at a dinner table, to be frank. A Sherlock with tact and some measurement of social grace, but still distinctively like Sherlock in her mannerisms. Especially when she occasionally discretely looked to Mycroft or her mother for guidance as the evening ran on, as Sherlock would with me. They really were very alike. But she was grownup about it, at least.

Mycroft didn't seem to mind the guidance required on his part. Maybe he had finally found someone to love who would allow him to help, instead of going rapidly downhill. In fact, he seemed very happy with nudging her, just as she was natural about accepting the help. I already knew she was more than capable of handling Mycroft, should she need it, but that night I realised that he knew it too. And what was more, he liked it.

As it turned out, both the Kemnels' knew how to hold their own in a conversation. Henrietta spoke casually about how she had once studied some French, and a little less mandarin during one point of the dinner. "I have taken it up again lately though" she smiled at Mrs Hudson "Mycroft is helping me". "Oh, that is very nice dear" Mrs Hudson replied with a delighted smile. "Mycroft decided to learn Finnish as we met" Henrietta continued with a chuckle. "That took him two whole days".

"How come you know Finnish then, my dear?" Mrs Hudson asked curiously, clearly delighted to see any Holmes brother with a "nice girl", nevermind that it was technically the wrong one, from her perspective anyway. "Oh, my father is Finnish-Swedish. I intend to stay in Britain though, of course" Henrietta assured her, still smiling, and somehow vaguely reminding me of Sherlock when he was trying to be charming, except that she appeared to be genuinely sincere.

I looked down, trying not to smirk, as Mycroft posessively put his hand on her arm. His goldfish merely smiled at the gesture, giving him a warm, caring look most people would never even think of granting to the "Iceman".

The dinner was all in all more smooth than most of our social occasions, although both Henrietta and Sherlock smirked some at seeing Molly with her boyfriend Tom, and Molly fidgeted some at seeing Henrietta's mother subtly flirting with Sherlock. And even more so when, continuing the weird theme, he flirted back, in a strange, Sherlock flirting kind of way. Clearly, mother Kemnel was not looking for normal any more than her daughter did.


	7. Dinner, Drinks And Deductions (Part 2)

_My other Sherlock story "A Portrait of a Genius" and all its requested sequels are now finished and completely posted! All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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After dinner, when our daughter fell asleep on the couch and we all settled in with a stack of old casefiles in an extremely elegant living room, Mycroft sat elegantly on a sofa with a glass of single malt scotch, and Henrietta curled up with her head in his lap, to his discrete but evident joy. This clearly surprised Lestrade, even Molly, but not me. Siger also and the two mothers looked on approvingly as well. Even Sherlock seemed content to see them happy, even though he was more openly so for Henrietta, not bothering to much hide his fondness for her. Not from me, anyway. Nor indeed, from her.

Mary carried our daughter up to a guest room, as I read the first casefile out loud while we sipped our drinks. Sherlock and Lestrade were both focused as I did so, while Violet and Mycroft seemed more relaxed, but I had known Sherlock long enough to know a furiously working brain when I saw one. Mrs Hudson was mostly concerned and calling it terrible, while Tom had gone pale, but mother and daughter Kemnel seemed just as focused as the Holmeses, though in their own fashion.

Mary had returned when my reading was interrupted about halfway through as Mycroft jumped slightly and Henrietta, who had just started to stroke his knee, laughed at him and shook her head fondly "how were you guys raised that you do not understand even the most basic of touches?" "Too clever" Siger commented, shaking his head in turn. "Overthinking everything. Their mother is just the same".

"Sherlock is overanalysing rather than overthinking" Elizabeth noted casually, but Henrietta all but wailed. "Mum! I don't want to hear about your sex life!" At this point, Molly dropped her glass of white wine, but mother Kemnel merely looked innocent "I wasn't saying anything of the sort". Sherlock frowned, looking first between them, then to me, asking, clearly confused "wasn't that a little bit not good? You aren't supposed to... right?" Now it was Lestrade choking "you mean she was right?!" As if that wasn't enough, Mycroft was leaning against the laughing Henrietta, laughing just as heartily, if not more so. I had never seen him laugh before. I didn't know he even could. "Really boys" Violet merely commented in the general direction of her sons, as Mary started to chuckle and Mrs. Hudson looked torn between disapproval and far too _much_ approval.

Molly was staring, mouth open, at both the Kemnels as well as Sherlock, while Lestrade was merely shifting his gaze around as if not sure where to look. I cleared my throat and continued to read out loud.

There were four casefiles left on the coffee table after the - at times fairly awkward - gathering had broken up. Sherlock had carried his goddaughter towards a cab, supervised by her parents; Tom had led a pretty shellshocked Molly out, and Mrs Hudson and Mrs Kemnel had both gotten into cabs too. Lestrade had left as well, with well over a dozen solved cases to accompany him, and Mycroft stood by his bookcase, thinking over one of the remaining ones, or, at least, pretending to.

The elder Holmes brother courteously bade his parents goodnight as they left for their hotel, and then lingered in the livingroom, still holding a not quite empty glass of finest scotch. Henrietta watched him from the door, silent and very perceptive in her own right, having had quite a few ideas of her own during the course of the evening. "My" she finally said, using a nickname he would not willingy allow any other. And she never called him Mike, at least. He found that comforting.

"Yes?" He turned, keeping all of his elegant Iceman persona around himself. "You are doing that thing again. And you're shutting me out. I am not an idiot, Mycroft, far from" she came further into the room "but I do not have your mind. If you put those walls up, I cannot scale them. What is the matter? My? What did I do to upset you?" She walked all the way up to him, touching gently. "Mycroft?"

The Iceman let himself be touched, watching, deducing, seeing no guile, no manipulation in her, but he did see understanding, comprehension. She did know what he was doing, knew and did not mind. And he let the walls, just a few of them, just the ones that mattered, come down. "Does it disturb you, Henrietta?" he asked gently, still in that smooth, well-modulated voice. "I do not understand touch. Most humans would find that it matters, in a relationship..." he frowned suddenly, wrinkling his nose in distaste "sentiment...".

Henrietta smiled, and shook her head, coming up to hug him gently. "You aren't very good at this, no. You are good at plenty of other things, My. Besides, it isn't a contest" she looked him in the eye, then kissed his cheek gently. "It wasn't meant as a jibe, Mycroft, just a joke. I am not your brother. Relax?" She suggested the last with a small smile, her hazel eyes glittering.

Mycroft looked back at her, somewhat surprised. "That is how we joke, I believe" "Well, whatever works for you two works for you two. But I feel no need to be so rough about the fact that I like you, Mycroft. Maybe because I have at least a elementary knowledge of what 'sentiment' actually means". Henrietta shook her head fondly and kissed his cheek again, leaving the library with a simple "I am going to bed. Why don't you come join me when you eventually finish saving the country? You haven't slept in a while. You won't wake me".

 _So, all of you enjoying this story should thank Hummingbird2 who is currently reviewing for all of you and thus is singelhandedly keeping me writing. You should give them some backup in this endeavour, and quite possibly a read as well._ _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	8. No Sister of Mine

_And now, we are jumping straight into the action, just when you started to believe this was all a fluff story. It isn't. Not that that's such a stretch when you look at my other Sherlock stuff. A warning for references, not at all graphic, to nasty things. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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I more or less passed by the Holmes town house; a few weeks after the weirdly amusing "family" dinner. Mary was out of town for the day, our babysitter had called in sick and I had been called in for an emergency surgery. In a fit of desperation I had called Sherlock, who had seemingly brushed me off as always, but before he hung up had merely told me to call Henrietta. Still desperate, and rapidly running out of time, I had.

Surprisingly, she had agreed without as much as a question to take little Emily for the day, and I had dropped by briefly to leave her with her. It was at the end of the day that I actually properly entered the house, to find Henrietta writing rapidly at a computer, and my and Mary's daughter sleeping next to her on the couch. Being a very active three year old, Emily was sometimes something of a chore to wipe out, but I had really not expected much less from the woman who could not just juggle, but influence, both the brothers Holmes.

"John!" She smiled as she looked up at me from her screen. "She has slept for a few minutes - we took a walk before". "Thanks" I smiled back, walking over to sit on the couch opposite them. Normally I would have chosen to sit closer to Emily, but there wasn't room and I didn't want to wake her. "Oh, it is fine" she assured me, smiling even though she was no longer looking up "as Sherlock no doubt forgot to tell you, the project I worked in, that first brought me to London, ran out just a few days ago. I would have gone back to Norway, but I decided to stay. Stay with Mycroft, I suppose".

"So, you are looking for a new job?" "Pretty much, yes. No hurry though. It is mostly to stay busy, to be honest. Mycroft doesn't seem to mind me being unemployed and I do enjoy having time to spend helping him and Sherlock think. I find trying to keep up with them mentally thrilling, as you know".

"Yeah. You must be painfully clever to even attempt it. They're both..." I shrugged, certain it would come across without more words. "Oh, Mycroft is significantly more clever than Sherlock is, and they both know it" Henrietta replied, looking up from her laptop to meet my eyes. "But Mycroft is much more cooperative to people, so that is easier. Plus the fact that he actually likes me, different to most people he has to explain things to, and I am, different from Sherlock, not too proud to ask for a hand when something is beyond me. I also, like Sherlock, has sudden ideas that Mycroft's methodic brain does not. Only half as often or less, mind you, but as Sherlock is trice as intelligent as anyone anyway, maybe you are right that I am clever" she grinned at me.

I chuckled, looking to Emily briefly. She was still asleep. "I am glad that it works out for you two. He cannot be easy to live with. Even compared to Sherlock". "Oh, I suppose not" she agrees, putting her laptop down "but who is. Will you stay for dinner? You'd be more than welcome to".

* * *

Dinner with Henrietta was a surprisingly casual affair, considering who's house we were in, and twelve days later, staring at screen showing her tied up and tortured, I could still remember her smiling and saying good night to Emily. I turned to Sherlock, where we were stood at Scotland Yard, watching the monitor showing us the eight victim in the second spree of these killer madmen.

"You were right" Lestrade conceeded, looking a little bit frantic. "Eight this time, not seven. They are escalating, just like you said they would. Maybe there will be nine?" "No" Sherlock was watching dispassionately, no sign of him recognising her. Maybe I was wrong? I had to be, if Sherlock... "There will be no more victims until in 72 hours, when the next spree, that time of nine, will occur".

"But Sherlock" I cut in. "We know her. We know that woman! She..." "No" Sherlock cut me off, blatantly, more so than in a long time, actually giving me a stern gaze "don't let them get into your head. She's just a stranger. Care if it helps you. I don't".

I watched Sherlock closely the next few hours, as he seemingly unconcerned about the deadline ran after clues all day, jumping headfirst after every lead, as usual. I followed. Surely he must be right, that it wasn't her, as he didn't seem in the least bit distraught? Surely he would not let her die, just to spite Mycroft?

He was still completely unconcerned, even as far as Sherlock went, as we watched a new screen in the afternoon, watched it run black after a man with dark hair - that was all I could glimpse of him - played with her, clearly with the intent of terrible deeds that would ultimately lead to her death. I even called her number then, but there was nothing, just a phone turned firmly off. And suddenly, just before the screen went dark, she looked into the camera, eyes panicked, and I knew it was her. Henrietta Kemnel had been captured and was tortured, and Sherlock Holmes didn't care.

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	9. Sister of Mine

_So for those of you that went_ "WHAT?!" _in the last chapter, bare with me. It will make more sense. Promise. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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Eventually the screen went black, and Sherlock set off with his usual frantic energy to catch the bad guys. I struggled with if I should tell Lestrade who the woman was, and finally, when Sherlock had gone off on yet some other tanget, not only leaving all of Scotland yard behind; but me also, for once, I knocked on the door to Lestrade's office.

"John" He greeted me, then frowned at what I can only assume was a rather severe expression on my face. "Sherlock says I am wrong" I started "but I am certain I am not. I know that girl. The hostage". Gregory's eyebrows went up. "You know her?" "Yes, and so do you, for a fashion. It is Henrietta Kemnel. Sherlock's big brother's girlfriend". He just stared me and I could almost hear the cogs work in his brain. And then my phone started ringing.

I looked down on my phone and then looked back up to Lestrade, probably looking as shocked as I felt. "She's calling. Henrietta. That's her phone". The DI frowned. "Put it on speaker".

"Hi John!" That was her voice. Soft and energetic and distinctly _hers_. When I failed to respond she sighed and I could have sworn she shook her head "psychopaths and sociopaths. So very predictable. Even when they _aren't_ strictly either. He didn't tell you" it wasn't a question in any way. "It is done - your case - Mycroft has just gotten the ok to go in and sweep things up. We staged it, the kidnapping - did you like my first Holmes master plan?" "It was you?" I found myself blinking. "How...?" "I came up with a way to get Sherlock an edge - which worked, by the way - Sherlock decided on the details and My helped us out. Although he does do a rather convincing sadist impression, doesn't he?" I heard her tone go thoughtful "I think I might sleep in the guest room tonight, actually".

Here, Gregory cut it "you're Henrietta..." "Kemnel" she replied "yes. And I am fine. I came up with a plan together with Sherlock". "She's alright, I was with her the entire time" came another, distinctly British, voice. I frowned, remembering, and my voice worked before I could quite catch up "Dave?!" We could hear him smile "Hi captain! Yup, it's me. I am Hen's bodyguard".

Feeling a bit of a headache approaching, I decided to go to Baker Street, deciding to wait there for Sherlock and give him a piece of my mind. Meanwhile, Hen organised with Greg when to give her statement. He looked as tired as I felt.

* * *

Sherlock didn't even say he was sorry, but I didn't really expect him to. Henrietta did though, and she ended up rather often babysitting for Emily. We settled into a new rutine with her added to the motley crew around the Holmes brothers. Mary and I leave our first daughter with her when the twins are born, and we are honored to be asked when Henrietta Kemnel becomes Henrietta Holmes.

There are two separate ceremonies at that occasion. First a private one just for the closest friends and family; where Sherlock is the best man and Henrietta's best friend, a woman who to general amusement manages to speak so rapid mandarin that Mycroft himself needs to ask her to repeat herself, because he did not quite get it all, is the only bridesmaid. Then there is the one for all the people Mycroft works with, the largest wedding I have ever even heard of.

It is so grand an occasion that they does not even have one pair of best man and maid of honour, but three, asking Mary and me to be the second pair and Lestrade and Molly the third, as Henrietta decides that the friends of one brother has to count for both, as they have so few between them.

She mostly seems amused by all Holmes oddities, and she writes a proper toast for Sherlock herself, warning him to not say a thing other than that. He doesn't. They ask me to hold the speech. I keep it short, speaking mostly of what a dedicated friend and brother he is, telling one or two funny stories from when the brothers were both younger, helpfully supplied by Violet.

They have been married for just over a year when it happens. She is babysitting for Emily as I work and Mary spend some time with just the babies, and then we get the call. A call saying they have gotten hit by a car, walking to to the park. Henrietta had moved very fast, they say, trying to protect Emily - and she had managed to, too - but suddenly we are sitting in the cafeteria at Barts, lending Mycroft some space as we wait to hear if the swelling will go down in her brain, I taking it onto myself to translate the information to everyone but Mycroft, who seems to get it all on his own. Not surprising. And then we wait.

It takes a few hours, before Mycroft appears again, looking crushed. All he says is a simple, but devastated "she doesn't know who I am".

 _This story is now completely written and will be published in full this year! I have had several requests for my other AU, the "Portrait of a Genius" verse lately, and have thus made it a now completed Quadrology. As ever, all recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	10. Brother of Mine

_Dun Dun Dunn. I hope I am not moving too fast here, but if I am, I am totally blaiming it on all of you for not giving me more imput about it. Hmpft. And all recognisable content belongs to its respective owners. Obviously._

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"She is awake?" I try to encourage Mycroft "that is a good sign. These things can be tricky and _completely_ temporary. Seriously" I put all my authority both as a doctor and as a captain behind the words, but he merely nods, looking broken.

Sherlock and I go there the next day, offering to do it to maybe give her some more familiar faces, helping her remember. Mycroft doesn't seem very hopeful, yet a little relieved. Being a Holmes, anything involving sentiment doesn't come easy to him, and this would be difficult even for someone far more accomplished in understanding - and acknowledging - their own feelings.

She is sitting up in her bed as I enter, Sherlock lurking behind me, as nervous as his brother. Oh, these Holmeses and their inability to express emotions like normal people.

"Hi" she smiles at me naturally as I enter, then frowns, puzzled "I know you. I feel like you're my brother or something... but I know you're not" she blinks at her own words "I... don't know why I said that, I'm sorry. Or.. how I know that, either. You could be, after all - we're both blond. And you're not one of the doctors. Although of course you _are_ , really" she silences, staring at me, obviously surprising herself greatly with what she is saying.

"Hello Hen" I smile at her "you have called me your brother before, yes, but I am not, no. An I am not one of the doctors here, though I have been your doctor in the past". She instinctively touches an old scar at her wrist at my words, then looks down, blinking "oh. You... stitched that, didn't you?" She looks up again, trying to read my eyes. I nod. "What was it?" "You cut yourself on a gardening tool" I explain, just as Sherlock enters and she bursts out "little brother!" surprising all three of us, both her and Sherlock going dead silent in shock.

"That's right" I reply, trying to diffuse the situation. "By marriage, yes. Do you remember his name?" She shakes her head. "No... but you're best friends... that's how I know you" "Yes", I agree, as Sherlock is still frozen, looking as if he is analysing. "My name is John. He was the best man at my wedding, and we both were at yours". She grimaces at that "to the man I cannot remember". I merely nod in affirmation, not wanting to push.

She seems to struggle for a bit, then she mumbles "Sherlock and John - and you're a doctor. He is... a consulting genius for... eh..." she blushes, changing the subject "how is your daughters, John? And... eh... I do not remember... you have a wife, I... know that, somehow... but... I do not remember her". "She will not mind" I assure her, trying to sound reassuring. "Her name is Mary, and we have three little girls, baby twins called Celia and Shirley, and..."

"Emily" Henerietta suddenly cuts in, smiling in frank adoration "she is wonderful. I... I cannot remember her face, but... I remember that she is wonderful. Maybe I will remember her when I see her?" "Very likely" I agree "you seem mostly to be in shock, frankly. I don't think the memory loss is very bad. It doesn't seem like it". She looks down at that, biting her lip "except I cannot remember my husband". "Don't worry about that, he is annoying enough without remembering him" Sherlock suddenly cuts in, and she laughs, honestly so, though there's still tension in the sound.


	11. Epilogue

_So, this is sadly this story coming to its end. I hope you have all enjoyed it - please review. All recognisable content_ still _belongs to its respective owners._

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Not being very badly hurt, just with a fractured tibia and a small concussion, they let Henrietta go home three days later. She had still not remembered Mary, though she somehow recognised her, when she had come with the children to visit, but she picked Emily out even faster than she did me, nearly as quickly as she did with Sherlock. The same thing with her mother, not doubting or hesitating for a moment.

Lestrade, who had lately started to date Elizabeth Kemnel after her amiable and mutual ending with Sherlock some months ago, and who Hen for far longer had developed a habit to drop in on at the Yard to help with engineering related cases, usually late at night bringing take-away for both of them, she recognised as well, a bit tryingly and insecurely at first, as with me. Much the same was the case with Mrs Hudson and Dave, her bodyguard and my very old army friend. But no matter how hard she tried, and how hard we all tried to help - all but Sherlock, that is, and possibly Mycroft himself, who seemed to have gone quite cold - Henrietta did not remember Mycroft Holmes. Not even a little.

We all drop by for dinner that night, Dave and Sherlock already being there as we arrive, apparently neither willing to leave her side at all, trying to recreate the many dinners we have held in much the same fashion in our little Holmes-Watson-Lestrade clan, nearly all of them here, finding her very tense and sad, repeatedly looking over at Mycroft who is very polite, too much so, and is not quite meeting her eyes.

Suddenly, and annoying his brother who protests that dinner is about to be served, Sherlock pulls us all - Henrietta physically so - into the well-appointed music room of the Holmes townhouse. "Sherlock" she protests weakly, not truly with any disapproval - after all the two of them have always gotten along brilliantly and that has only increased with time - and I can see Mycroft flinching, like any occasion when she remembers yet another thing, or repeats yet another name, clearly remembered, like Sherlock's, or indeed that of Emily, and still cannot not remember his face.

It has come back to her, by then, that she is married, that Sherlock has a brother whom she loves very dearly, she has said as much to us, but in no way does she recognise Mycroft as that beloved husband, her My, nor does she recall any details on the subject. And that clearly hurts him, as much as her not remembering being married at all did.

It honestly worries all of us, but no one says so out loud as Sherlock forces his brother to sit down by the grand piano, taking up his violin, which he must have brought along in advance. He hands his elder brother some notes that actually makes the older brother go pale and refuse, but Sherlock does not - as ever - budge.

Slowly, they start to play the duett, obviously written for a piano and a violin together, focusing on the piano with brief intense violin strokes, and I finally recognise the piece as the one the brothers composed together some months earlier for Henrietta's brithday.

As they play, Mycroft changes, as he relaxes into the music and his love for his wife, laying the Iceman aside and letting us all see a glimpse of the loving husband and brother that, no doubt, is the man Henrietta sees all the time.

Quite suddenly, we hear a sob coming from Henrietta. I think we all turn, involuntarily, all except Sherlock, who keeps playing even though his brother abruptly stops. Henrietta looks away from Mycroft's face, where her eyes seemingly have been fixed for some time, and smiles towards Sherlock through an array of tears, whispering "thank you, Sherlock". She is met with a stop also by the violin and a triumphant "I knew it would work!"

"What would, exactly?" Mycroft does not look away from his wife, though the words are clearly aimed at his brother. "She remembered those she loved, when she saw us" Sherlock smiles at his much-loved, married-in little sister "but she never saw _her_ you, just..." "just the Iceman" Henrietta fills in, still looking at her husband "and how could I recognise him? I didn't love the mask, I love _you_ ".

"Precisely" Sherlock agrees, and it is a credit to how much he cares for Hen that he stops bragging and simply leads the way into the dining room, joined by the rest of us, leaving Henrietta and Mycroft alone for a moment. Soon they join us, now holding hands. And when Hen lifts Emily up with a true smile this time, we all feel that things are right again, nevermind if she ever regains all her memories or not. She can recall everything that matters.

For once, as we sit in the elegant drawing room after dinner, Henrietta leaning her head on Mycroft's shoulder, looking as if she will never let him go, even the Holmes brothers seem to find nothing to fight about. Instead, Mycroft holds his wife silently, eyes lovingly straying to watch her face, time and time again. And all is right in the Holmes-Watson-Lestrade clan once more. Luckily.


End file.
